


The Time We Spent Together When the Light Was Out Became My Thought of You

by FlameoSirFlameo



Series: New Thinking [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: And other small pleasures, Character Study, Deleted Scenes, F/F, Fluff, JBP, Meaning of Life, philosophical pillow talk, talk dirty to me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 07:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28684602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlameoSirFlameo/pseuds/FlameoSirFlameo
Summary: Most of these scenes were written for the main piece in this series,New Thinking. Some are fun moments that didn't fit with the plot, others are references to single lines or plot points that I needed to clarify for myself. In no particular order, this is the fluffiest of that excess. See tags for specifics.tl;dr: I wrote fanfic of my fanfic.Title fromFor A Few Good Menby Amigo the Devil
Relationships: Moira O'Deorain/Reader
Series: New Thinking [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2100723
Kudos: 13





	The Time We Spent Together When the Light Was Out Became My Thought of You

The healing solution is glowing. That’s probably fine. You think of ambrosia, and wonder how far her flexible morality stretches.

“We could probably drink this. Would it makes us gods?”

“Doubtful. But it would likely make a grand hangover cure.”

“Dr. O’Deorain is that an experimental proposal?”

“I am confident of the outcome, no need to test it.”

“True. Plus I would corrupt the data. If we drink first I won’t be able to keep my hands off you.”

* * *

* * *

You cook for her.

You sear the meat then slow cook it for three hours, roasting vegetables in the meantime and baking bread.

By the time she arrives your apartment smells divine.

You hand her a glass of wine as she enters, kissing you softly and continuing into the kitchen. You meet her standing in front of the oven, eyes closed, breathing in. Lost to the world. You come up behind her and wrap one arm around her waist, reaching up with the other to trail along her neck.

“Have I caught you in a moment of weakness?” 

She bats your hand away, and smiles. “I have many.”

“I would never have guessed.”

“It’s best to know yourself fully.”

“I plan to.”

* * *

* * *

That first time, you both were awake until near dawn, touching and tasting and straining to feel all of each other. This second time, she had asked you to lock up the lab and meet her at her home after.

Lying in bed now, on your back next to her, aching in a beautiful way, you’re hesitant. It’s past midnight. You know half of your clothing is on the sofa, where she’d first invited you to sit under the pretense of talking. With others this is the time when you’d make excuses and collect your things. But she’s _not like the others._

“Moira? Do you want me to…be here? When you wake up in the morning?”

“Yes.” She speaks to the ceiling but reaches a hand across to find yours. “And after.”

* * *

* * *

“Moira, have you always known what you wanted?"

“Yes. You haven’t?”

“No, it took me a long time to understand. I had to admit how unsatisfying everything else was, and then believe satisfaction was possible, but that I just hadn’t found it yet. You’re what I wanted. Want. Have wanted all along.”

“I know.”

“Hey!” You bite her shoulder and she hisses, rolling away in mock anger. You look at her back and think how different she is here, naked with you in bed, so far from her precise and meticulous formality in the lab. 

“In college I… well I can’t say I wish I hadn’t because I wouldn’t be who I am now but… if I told you about the ones I slept with you’d no doubt have something to say. In Irish. With lots of references to gods and devils and fools.” You laugh, knowing how she swears when she’s angry. She rolls onto her back.

“Éasca. Baintrí gan sláinte. Mhaith mallacht diabhal raibh imeacht agat séideadh. Oíche shamhna shona duit.”***

You sigh. Happy. “Which means?

She grins at the ceiling. You lean in to bite her again but she counters by rising to to meet you and turning it into a kiss. You curl around her. Time passes in gentle silence, and you’re starting to drift asleep when she speaks, so quiet and low you almost miss it.

“Were there many…?”

“Does it matter?”

She turns her head away. “Never mind.”

You’re silent for a time. “Yes. I’m still flesh and blood Moira. I didn’t think I’d ever find… you.”

***Irish nonsense

* * *

* * *

A warm summer night, and you’ve both thrown the covers off, or rather not bothered to pull them up again after working each other apart. 

The window is open, and wind rustles the leaves of the old oak trees outside. Thunder rumbles softly in the distance. You lie face up, and her down, cheek nudged into a feather pillow. Her rumpled hair fans out, strands blending with your hair in the dark. One of her legs is wrapped around yours and she traces long nails slowly up and down your side. You know her steady breathing in the rise and fall of her shadow beside you.

You drift asleep to the gentle sounds of leaves and thunder, her sure weight not leaving your side.

* * *

* * *

You’re lying against her on the couch. You’d asked what she’s always humming, and to your surprise she’d put on a record. It had finished, but neither of you want to get up. Your back rests against her chest and she’s still absentmindedly stroking your arm.

“So tell me, Bone Saw, where did you do your residency?”

You arch back into her, fitting more closely between her long arms. You can feel her smile on your neck, the devious one.

“Ahhh, a small hospital, private. You probably haven’t heard of it.”

“Did they like you there?”

“Immensely.”

“Did the other doctors like you?” It’s an innocently-phrased question but you hear the darkness in her tone and know where she wants this fantasy to go. It’s a thing that gets both of you off. Each other’s worth. You lower your voice.

“Yes. They did. They wanted me Moira. They all wanted me.” 

Her breath catches at your tone, and you smile to know it gives her pleasure.

“I would lead them on, seeing how far I could get them to go. One followed me into a supply closet, and I let him push up against me. He was so hard…”

She groans then, and you feel her body shift beneath you. Her grip on your arm drifts higher, across your chest where she palms your breast through your shirt, rough. It feels like heaven.

You roll over to face her, staring in to her eyes and grabbing her hand to slide it over your hips and into your pants.

“But none of _them_ could have me.”

* * *

* * *

Your fingers trace the soft side of her breast as you both lay sprawled. Satiated.

“Moira? Have you ever been with a man?”

“Once. I wanted to experience it.”

You smile. Her natural curiosity. An openness and honesty you admire. If there’s a spice she won’t ask you what it tastes like, she’ll just pinch it between her fingers and try it for herself, damn the consequences.

“Did you enjoy it?”

She is silent for so long you think she must not have heard.

“I wanted to. The idea of one’s body giving pleasure as it receives it, fitting together… the biology of it. It seemed right. But it wasn’t with him.”

 _The biology of it._ You feel suddenly cold, and pull your hand away from her, but she catches it and brings your fingers to touch her lips.

“I didn’t know him, not really. It seems anatomy is a subset of pleasure. If one doesn’t connect with another in spirit… pointless. Our fantasies mirror our values.”

* * *

* * *

Tonight, for the first time, she’d been gentle. You’d gotten used to her bruising touch and searing kisses, delighting when morning sunshine revealed a map of the previous night’s ecstasy. Tonight she’d been… different. She’d pulled you to her before you could taste her, guided your hand between her legs and whispered _please_. She’d held your eyes as your swift fingers found her release, then laid you back and covered your body with hers, caressing you until there wasn’t a place she hadn’t touched, that time and memory hadn’t broken apart with tender kisses.

* * *

* * *

Moira was sweating. She rolled her sleeves up and tried to focus on the screen in front of her. The stool she sat on must be defective; she couldn’t get comfortable. She could feel every curve, every ridge of the ergonomic… god. This was ridiculous. They were already behind. They didn’t have time for diversions. But she hadn’t felt this turned on since, well… she couldn’t remember. Probably high school, but she’d had no outlet then. And she’d been inexperienced. Not anymore. She spent her life solving problems, and this was a problem she could solve. Why was she still sitting here then? Sometimes she hated her own stubbornness.

Her colleague asked something from across the room, something that required a response, but Moira didn’t answer. She was too distracted by the woman’s low-cut shirt — she’d pulled off her sweater to reveal a thin, lacy camisole about an hour ago — Moira didn’t think she’d made any progress on her analysis since then. 

“Are you alright?” Her colleague’s concern was charming, really.

“I’m fine.” But the flush creeping up her cheeks and the heat between her legs disagreed. 

The woman had crossed the room, now reached toward Moira’s forehead, but Moira batted her hand away. “Not here.”

“Moira I just—“

“Not here. We’re done for the day.”

“What do you mean? We still have tests running. Do you need to lie down?”

Moira leaned forward, exhaling slowly and holding her eyes. “We’re done. Here. For today. I’m going home.”

She caught on, and damn her, took longer than necessary to lock up.

By the time her doorbell rang, Moira had unbuttoned her shirt and was near pacing. 

“Took you long enough,” she growled, pulling her lover inside and pressing her body roughly against the closing door. 

“You should’ve said something sooner,” she laughed and leaned her head back as Moira bit angry marks down her neck. Then, voice heavy, “Tell me what you need.”

“You.” Moira fisted two hands in her hair and kissed her, tongue parting her lips and gaining the first taste of release from her torment. The woman pushed them backward toward the bedroom. Moira let her lead, she knew the way.

~

“More.” 

“Moira,” she breathed against her ear, driving in again and again, “That’s three fingers. Do you want a fourth?”

“In the bedside table,” Moira said, “Put it on.”

The woman withdrew and Moira gasped at the sudden chill, but she was soon back. She teased at Moira’s entrance, a smooth wet nudge, and in one slow stroke pushed fully inside. Moira closed her eyes and gave herself completely to the sensation of fullness. 

“Is that alright? I can slow down…”

“God. No. Please. Don’t stop.”

Moira comes, hard, with her name on her lips.

* * *

* * *

Moira’s hand stills at the small of your back, the soothing cream she’s rubbing over the marks she created there sticky on her fingers. She’d taken you with abandon, nails and low moans and hot kisses that led to _yes, oh, yes_. Radiant. Her eyes still shine with that light.

“Those things I said to you that morning, the first one... I think I was lying to myself.”

“I know it.”

* * *

* * *

“I’m working.” She’s petting the rabbits. 

“Moira, come on.”

“What? Why, where are we going?”

“ _Out._ ” You slide on a backpack and turn off the lab lights, leaving her in darkness.

“Really?! So juvenile…” You hear her bump in to a table and curse as she grabs her coat and finds her way across the room to meet you at the door.

~

The bench you’d hoped would be free is. You lead her to it and open the backpack to pull out a bottle of wine, cups, and chips. She sighs, and sits.

You pour wine into two cups and hand one to her. Light glimmers on the lake and you know sunset won’t be long in coming. “You see, vacations aren’t so bad.”

“We’re twenty minutes from the campus.” She sighs again, but this time it's longer. Smoother. Like she’s exhaling some of the tension she carries around when at the institute. 

You both sit in silence for a time, and know the simple joy in sharing a moment together. The sunset is fiery oranges and reds, with streaks of blue. It’s her. 

Her voice is gentle in the twilight, usually sharp consonants blurred by the softness of feeling the expanse of a vast landscape before her.

“In childhood, at school, we were told to imagine that someday, in heaven, we may see those great departed who we’d not seen on earth and that we may choose, from all the centuries, the great men we’d like to meet.”

She sips from her cup, and continues. “I’ve always thought that dreams of heaven, and greatness, should not be waiting for us in our graves, but should be ours to claim here, now, on this earth.”

It’s properly dark now, and stars are beginning to emerge.

“We’re close Moira, your work will succeed.”

“Our work.”

* * *

* * *

"When you’re… like me, people want to see you fail.”

“Like you?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know. You’re the same.”

* * *

* * *

You’ve worked for Dr. O’Deorain four months now. Of all the things she taught you, handling the rabbits was the last. She must value them greatly.

“Careful! It's important to support their back legs...” You’ve never seen her nervous. That she should be so over the rabbits is endearing.

You slide the newest member of the team, a New Zealand Red, safely into its cage and shut the door.

“We’re going to make you sick, then make you better than well again.” You tickle its soft fur through the cage bars.

She sighs, and begins to clean up the packing materials. 

“I have a rule.”

She hasn’t looked up but you know she is speaking to you. “Only two life-threatening tests per specimen. Some may call that a waste, discarding a thing before it can serve its full purpose, but properly utilizing a resource doesn’t always mean draining it dry. The objective value of a thing is only a fraction of its worth.” She pauses, has that look of being lost in memory.

“So... what happens after two tests?” You wonder why the lab isn’t overrun with hopping fluff balls.

“ _Life-threatening_ tests. If we have further use for them, gene silencing or minor tissue experiments, for example, they may stay. Otherwise there is a landowner to the east who takes them in. He and his wife run a business: foreign guests will pay well to play at hunting.”

Seems fair. But “Aren’t these captivity-bred rabbits? Won’t they die in the wild?”

“Fifty thousand square meters free of natural predators is hardly wild. Besides, a stationary target is easy to hit. They won’t last long.”

She slides the shipping box to the end of a table; you’ll take it to the trash when you leave tonight.

“I know you’re thinking ‘why bother then?’ Their contributions to science should be enough, and afterwards euthanasia is painless. But there are two sides to nature. Creation and destruction. To take away the potential for one is… unnatural. An expedient solution is not always best.”

“And… which one are we facilitating, exactly? Creation or destruction?”

She’s silent for a time. “Human kind is a wide spectrum. On one end those who hate the world, hate beauty, and want to watch it burn. On the other end, those who build and rebuild the world. And they, we, all the same creature. Biologically.”

She unclasps her lab coat and hangs it on the hook outside her office. You settle back against a lab bench and slide hands into your pockets— this is promising to be one of those discourses on human potential you love so much.

She continues, “It is far easier to destroy than to create. But mere good intentions are not sufficient to make good men and women. If you do nothing while others tear it all down, you are complicit in evi— in the destruction. So the highest ambition is to create. Even so, creation does not guarantee that a thing is good.”

You watch her disappear into her office, then return holding her soft-sided briefcase, buckling it closed while shaking her head. “ _Good_. Such a rudimentary word. I am not sure if creation is good, but I do know it is _right._ ”

 _Wait for it…_ You can read the flow of these conversations now in the depth of the crease between her eyebrows, the way her fingernails tap idly on the leather of her bag. She’s frustrated, but not unsure. There’s dozens of ideas swirling in her mind and she’s parsing them, picking one with precision. Then something new happens: she asks you a personal question.

“When are you happiest?” 

You’re caught off guard, but thrilled to be kept on your toes. “When I…” you think of past vacations with friends, of celebrations and milestones in your life. Suddenly you realize what makes you happiest is standing right in front of you. But no, _When I’m with you_ is not an appropriate answer, nor the right one. You think back over these past four months with her, and the answer catches you like a punch in the stomach. You smile.

“When I’m working. What I mean is, when I’m at the limit of what I can do, and I’m pushing past that.”

She’s smiling too, there must be a radiance shining on your face because you can see its reflection on hers. “Yes. You see? How can that not be _right?_ I don’t trust anyone who tries to tell me otherwise.” The lightness in her voice is infectious, and this is happiness too, you think; this sense of purpose, of hope. 

She leans forward now, caught in the flow of meaning. “There’s some games you don’t get to play unless you’re all in. Like life. This is going to kill us. So we’re all in by default; it’s a wasted effort to fight that. I think you might as well play the most magnificent game you can, while you’re waiting. Do you have anything better to do?”

She raises an eyebrow. Oh, right. From her, that’s not rhetorical, it’s a real question. You laugh, thoroughly enjoying this. Enjoying her. You gaze across the room at her body, shoulders thrown back easily, slanting, one elbow resting on the counter at her back. Ease and self-assuredness. This is one hell of a ride. 

“No, I don’t.”


End file.
